


Fifteen and Fuck You

by Nomanono



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angry angst angel has something to prove, Gen, Welcome to the Madness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-18 08:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10612788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomanono/pseuds/Nomanono
Summary: When everyone says you can't, that's when you have to.





	1. Fifteen and Fuck You

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure everyone is doing their own take on the new DVD trailer material. I have another trailer-sparked blurb [on tumblr](http://nomanono.tumblr.com/post/159469376681/bang) but can never resist posting here about the angry angst angel. 
> 
> Tiger's got something to prove.

“You’re fifteen.”

Otabek’s hand had splayed out on his chest, fanning into a stony stop sign that ground Yuri’s advance to a halt. 

“Not for long!” Yuri had growled, his fists balling up at his sides. The volume of his voice had ticked up several notches: “Jesus - I’m almost sixteen! This isn’t fucking _fair_! Just _take_ me! I can sneak in!”

Otabek hadn’t said a word, just kept his hand on Yuri and raised an eyebrow at his outburst. 

“Otabek! Come _on_!”

But there was no change, and after another beat of silence Yuri had stormed back towards the hotel, waving his middle finger.

— 

Remembering the encounter now, Yuri’s face contorted into an angry snarl. He dug his spike into the ice and shot into the air, kicking his legs out, up, more than parallel to the ice.

Landed.

That would do. 

He swiveled to a halt, bracing his hands on the rink wall, and wound the song back again as he jotted down the jump. Sweat dribbled from his brow along the edge of his nose, barely missing his tender tear ducts, and dripped off his face as he bent over. The notepad was a mess of scrawls and scraped away symbols, but it was starting to come together.

— 

“Sorry, Yurio, adults only,” Victor had chimed, smiling like a fool with a hand around Yuuri’s waist. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating with Yakov and Lilia anyway?” 

He’d blown Yuri a kiss as the elevator doors started to close. Yuri had screamed something. He couldn’t even remember what. And Yuuri had just grinned, sidled up to Victor, and waved.

“Congratulations again, Yurio!” 

— 

So here he was, on the night of the greatest accomplishment of his life: completely alone.

_Fuck all of them._

Not adult enough? Not old enough? Is that why Victor had given him agape, not eros? Is that why every time he stepped close to Otabek the Kazakh eked away?

He rewound the song again, the song _Otabek_ had picked for him. 

It was angry. It was angry and raw and chaotic and everything Yuri felt inside. All he had to do was get that feeling out of him and onto the ice. 

Where he’d show all of them. 

Fifteen??? 

Fuck you. 

He could be sexy. He could have eros. He could perfect the flaws of his free skate.

Yuri raced around the rink, nails raking against his chest. What was he going to wear?

Something he could take off.

— 

“Get your rest. You still have to perform tomorrow,” Lilia had said. “Don’t let the medal go to your head.”

She and Yakov were standing closer together than they normally did, and Yakov looked… grumpy or distracted or _something_. 

“You don’t want to eat?” Yuri had frowned. He hated sounding pathetic, and after it came out he’d realized just how sorry he sounded.

“We already ate,” Yakov had said. “Go bother Victor, or Otabek! We’ll get you tomorrow morning.”

That was the last straw.

—

It took less than twenty minutes for Yuri to go to the hotel, empty the irresponsibly large number of suitcases he’d brought, and pull together an outfit. He’d keep the jacket and the pants he wore for Lilia’s exhibition choreography, but underneath… 

The shirt was flimsy, hung low on him, and was far more comfortable than the spandex. Yuri pulled out the gloves for his costume, soft black stretch material.

It wasn’t until he was back on the ice that he took scissors to them. 

—

 _Send me a song_ , Yuri had texted Otabek, watching him through the occasional flutter of the bar’s curtain while the bouncer looked increasingly upset at Yuri’s continued presence. He probably shouldn’t have stalked Otabek down after his disappointing encounter with Yakov and Lilia, but he’d been too angry to just go to bed or eat alone and his feet had taken him, almost on automatic, to the club.

“Adults _only_ ,” the bouncer’d repeated.

It was almost an hour before Otabek’s text had arrived, long after Yuri had given up and gone back to the rink. It was far easier to sneak into. Instead of an ID he’d just flashed his medal and all the doors were open, the closed rink brightened for his use alone.

 _???_ , Otabek responded.

_For a routine. Tonight. Now. Send me something to skate to. None of this ballet, agape bullshit._

Ten more minutes.

 _Attachment: Welcome to the Madness_.

At first Yuri hadn't been sure if he should be proud or offended. Then he’d put on his headphones.

—

It was 2am by the time Yuri got back to the hotel. 

He collapsed into bed, still a sweaty mess, chicken-scratched notepad on the nightstand.

His dreams were filled with the new routine. It was almost perfect. Nearly complete. A testament to his ability, his attitude, his sexuality.

There was just one thing missing.

He woke up to the sound of Yakov’s irritated knocking, looked at his clock, and leapt up into the air. Five minutes later he was showered and had his new outfit shoved into a bag. 

“I’m up!” he yelled at Yakov. 

— 

“Hey,” Yuri said, awkwardly, as they were getting changed. 

Otabek gave his typical response: an arched brow.

Yuri should have said sorry, and he knew it, but instead his mouth opened and this came out: “I need you to do something during my routine.”

That was the missing piece, after all.

“You’re on in less than an hour.”

“I know!” Yuri cursed, checking to make sure none of the scissored cuts were visible while he had his jacket on. “Look - just —“ He growled. “Just do this for me, OK? Friends?”

The term made Otabek soften. Yuri saw the shift in the corner of his eye as he closed his locker, drawing a windbreaker on over the costume. 

“Ok," Otabek gave in. "What do I do?”

— 

Yuri passed the thumb drive to one of the coordinators before stalking towards Lilia and Yakov.

“Yuri!” Lilia gasped. “What did you do to your face?!” 

Yuri glared, crossing his arms, shadowed-eyes looking out over the ice.

“I changed the routine,” he said.

“ _What?!_ ” Yakov exploded.

“I changed it, okay! Fuck!” 

“ _Yuri!_ ”

“Tsch!” 

He stepped up to the edge of the rink, ripping off his skate guards.

“Just watch me.”

— 

He stood on the ice, waiting for the song to start, crowd already silent with anticipation.

They were all there. 

Everyone who’d told him he was too young. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t an _adult_. 

“You’re fifteen,” he heard Otabek repeat in his head. 

He slipped on his glasses.

The first note of the song tore over the ice.

_Fuck you._


	2. Oh. My. God.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enough folks asked for more that I figured a mini-sequel couldn't hurt. 
> 
> All those awkward feelings!

Oh.

My.

 _God_.

Yuuri choked on his own tongue. His body had grown progressively stiffer from that very first peel of the electric guitar and the sensuous sag Yuri had put into his shoulder. 

BUT THIS?!?!?!

He couldn’t _breathe_.

—

Yuri loved it. Yuri hated them.

 _‘Adults only’, Victor?_ Yuri thought, chucking his sunglasses at the swatch of silver hair in the stands. 

He ruined the ice beneath his skates, a chainsaw leaving white dust in his wake.

 _Too young, Yakov? Lilia?_

Two quads in a row, and at the end of it he shrugged the coat off his shoulders, rolled his body like a serpent, and flung the fabric to the ice, revealing the tattered shirt that passed for a costume. 

_Fifteen, Otabek?_

He picked up speed, heading straight towards the skater at the edge of the rink. 

Watched Otabek hold out his hand like a gun. 

Fire.

—

Yuri’s brain stopped working entirely. He grabbed Victor’s hand, nails digging in to soft flesh as Yuri slid across the ice, supine, shirt bunching up to his armpits to reveal the full, lithe expanse of Yuri’s bare upper body.

“Ohmygod!” Phichit gasped.

Victor was standing equally gobsmacked, his jaw dangling like a door off its hinges.

Chris whistled.

“How many folks would line up to go to jail for _that_?” He mused, seeming the least flabbergasted of the group. 

“H-h-ic!” Yuuri tried to speak but all that came out was a stunned, horrified squeak. He pointed, finger flailing towards Yuri, like he could magically summon clothes or maybe a curtain or dear god anything to shield Yuri’s body.

Victor’s internal monologue sounded something like: _He’s fifteen. He’s fifteen. Stop that. Stop that. NO NO HE’S FIFTEEN! HE’S FIFTEEN! STOP STOP STOP FIFTEEN FIFTEEN FIFTEEN MERCY_. Until he finally had to bring a hand to his face and hide the eye that wasn’t already half-shielded by hair. 

There wasn’t a face in their group that wasn’t tomato red with blush.

“Oh. God. _Yuri_ ,” Phichit managed.

— 

The crowd didn’t know whether to explode or continue their shocked silence as Yuri finally, blessedly, ground to a halt.

He stood there, huffing, as good as naked as far as the chill air off the ice was concerned. 

_Now tell me I’m not an adult_.

He finally skated towards the rink’s edge, where Yakov and Lilia were waiting. 

Yakov looked… embarrassed? And Lilia… 

Yuri glared as he got off the ice. He’d wanted them to be _angry_ at him. He knew how to deal with anger. He was expecting a lecture and he’d prepared his best expression of insolence and disdain to meet it. But Yakov’s… shame? And Lilia’s cool judgment? 

Lilia draped Yuri’s jacket around his shoulder once he was within reach, extended his skate guards without a word, and directed him away from the ice when he’d snapped them on. 

Even the announcers were fumbling to try and describe the performance.

“That was - - That was Yuri Plistesky - - Fifteen year old - - “ one started.

“Fifteen year old gold medalist at his senior debut - - youngest skater to ever take the top of the podium,” the other finished. “That was — certainly a performance that folks will be talking about!” 

Why did Yuri suddenly feel so shitty? This was supposed to be his comeback. His perfect, adult performance to make up for the errors of his free skate. To prove to everyone he wasn’t just passion and agape - he could be raw, sexual energy too.

He tried to find Otabek. At least _Otabek_ would be proud of him, right? But as Yuri approached him, expecting a clasping hug of congratulations, Otabek just gave him a funny look, clapped a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed. 

Yuri blinked. 

That was it?

“What did you think?” Yuri pressed, even as Lilia was trying to guide him onward. 

“It fit the music,” Otabek said, almost helplessly. He rubbed the back of his neck, turning away from Yuri, and Yuri wanted to scream.

Hadn’t they seen him?! 

Weren’t they fucking _impressed_? Didn’t they get it? 

“Coach Feltsman!” a reporter called. “Did you work with Yuri on that rou-“

“He did it all himself! I didn’t know about it until ten minutes ago!”

And Yakov shoved his hands into his pocket and kept walking. 

Yuri was still flush from the performance, carried himself with the posture that would save him from Lilia’s chiding, but he hated how he felt. 

It was supposed to feel _good_.

— 

Once he’d changed out of his skates, he weaseled away from his coaches and darted to the stands where his rivals lingered. 

He was expecting sarcasm and head shakes, but what he got was awkward coughs and eye aversions. 

Phichit and Yuuri turned towards each other, comparing something on their phones with studious intensity as soon as Yuri came around. Victor leaned on the rail, looking out over the ice, anywhere but Yuri. Only Chris would meet his eyes, and he looked… bemused? Entertained? Like Yuri was some kind of joke?

“Well?!” Yuri yelled, kicking the bench. “What?! Are you all too busy taking notes on what _real_ choreography looks like?!”

Yuuri made another choking noise. 

Chris glanced between Victor and the two Asians, then sighed as he rolled to his feet. 

“No one? No?” Chris asked. He let the words echo for a moment before accepting that the other three were going to staunchly avoid the situation. “Alright. I’ll do it. But this should have been your job, Victor. You owe me one.”

Victor waved awkwardly back towards Chris in embarrassed acknowledgment, but at least his cheeks were no longer pink. 

Chris stepped down to where Yuri was fuming and pat his shoulder. “Come on.”

— 

“The fuck was that?!” Yuri shouted when they were safely ensconced in the stair well. 

“You can’t be that oblivious, can you, Yuri?” Chris asked, his amusement adopting a tinge of incredulity. 

“That was fucking _good_ and they’re just going to ignore me?! AGAIN?!” Yuri kicked the wall. “Don’t like the fact that I’m not some innocent agape kid anymore?!”

Chris watched Yuri stalk back and forth in the confines of the stairwell, then chuckled softly. 

“You want to be treated like an adult, hmm? Alright,” Chris said. He gestured to the stairwell door, towards the stand where the group was probably still shuffling about in awkward silence. “They don’t _want_ to ignore you. They’re just embarrassed! No one wants to be turned on by a child.”

“I’m not a GODDAMN CHILD!” Yuri screamed. “I just won the god damn gold medal! In the seniors division! I broke Victor’s record! I’m not some _kid_! Stop treating me like I can’t fucking take care of myself!” 

“Yuri,” Chris said, his patience hardly flustered by Yuri’s volume, “regardless of how _mature_ you feel, or are, any person in that rink who acted on the things you wanted them to feel with that performance would go to jail.” 

Yuri crossed his arms, lifting his chin in defiance. “I showed some skin! What’s wrong with that?!”

Chris sighed, pulling at one of his curls. “Nothing’s wrong with that. But I know when someone is bringing their sexuality on the ice,” he purred, and Yuri couldn’t help remembering Chris’ performance. “And _you_ , sweet thing, were all sex and anger.” 

Yuri was fuming, but Chris didn’t stop long enough for him to get in a rebuttal.

“ _And_ , when you’re underage and start acting sexy, adults get uncomfortable,” Chris said. “Because _we_ know the consequences. Because _we_ have been told again and again and again how wrong it is. There’s a lot of shame there. We know it would be taking advantage of you to —“ 

“How is giving me WHAT I WANT taking advantage of me!?” Yuri pushed on Chris’ chest. His hand started to reach for Chris’ hip and in an instant Chris grabbed his wrist and slammed Yuri back against the wall. 

“Don’t. _Touch_. Me,” Chris said, accent thickening with emotion. Yuri swallowed, unprepared for the hulking Swiss skater’s ferocity. He turned his head away, glaring.

Chris let Yuri go, and Yuri yanked his jacket back into place, crossing his arms again and turning away.

“Express yourself however you want. That’s your prerogative. It was a _brilliant_ performance,” Chris said. He couldn’t help the chuckle as he caught the lift to Yuri’s chest at that praise. “But when you draw attention to how sexy you are and it’s very illegal for anyone to act on that, folks are going to be uncomfortable. So don’t get too upset when they’re not jumping for joy to see you, hm? I think you broke poor Yuuri.”

With that, Chris reached for the door.

“I just wanted them to stop leaving me out of everything!” Yuri shouted, but his anger was failing now, replaced by a very upset Russian teen. “You know when I choreographed that? Last night! _Alone_ , after they’d all left to do - whatever the fuck it is _adults_ do. On the night of my medal!”

Chris let go of the handle with an inaudible sigh, more just a softening of his shoulders. He turned, wrapping Yuri in a loose hug and planting a kiss on his forehead, much to Yuri’s dismay. 

“What’re you—“ Yuri started, wiggling, and Chris let him go. 

“Ask me to hang out with you,” Chris said. 

“What?!”

“You’re upset no one spent time with you. Did you ask them to?”

“No but I —“ 

“Ask me,” Chris challenged. “It can’t be that hard, can it?”

Yuri bared his teeth in a snarl. 

“Hang out with me!” Yuri yelled. 

“Please?” Chris hinted.

Yuri huffed. 

“Just do it, okay?!” Yuri said. “Just— let’s do anything.”

“Fine,” Chris finally relented, chuckling. “I’ll text the others. On one condition.”

Yuri glared.

“ _Never_ wear that shirt again.”


End file.
